


Cull the Herd

by Morteamore



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Arson, Bad Parenting, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Dysfunctional Family, Graphic Description of Corpses, Intense, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Psychological Trauma, Recreational Drug Use, Slow Burn, Verbal Abuse, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:22:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29265714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morteamore/pseuds/Morteamore
Summary: Jack Lawrence is a retired serial killer trying to live a normal life for his daughter Angel's sake. But after two years of trying to suppress his murderous intentions, he's starting to feel that old familiar need. Things only spiral downward further when he encounters Rhys, a data miner working for a small-time corporation, and saves him from a bloody fate.
Relationships: Handsome Jack/Rhys (Borderlands)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 35





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: graphic depictions of violence, corpses, and death. Mentions of physical trauma to a child and hospital scenario. Strong sometimes abusive language. I'll be adding more tags each chapter, depending.

Having already checked to make sure the seal on the barrel before him was airtight, Jack Lawrence riffled through the wallet he had set down on a nearby ledge. It took him a moment to find what he was looking for: a photograph, four figures standing clustered together against a sky blue background. Typical department store photography. There were two children, a boy and a girl, and a man and woman who looked to be middle-aged. Out of the four, only the older man wasn’t smiling. Jack stared at the photo without blinking until he thought he’d bore holes through the photo paper with his eyes. Then he shoved it into his back pocket and turned his back on the room. The trash leftover from his night’s work was already buried in the ruins of a garden out back. He had nothing left to do here except leave.

When Jack reached his sports car, he opened the trunk and unzipped the sole gym bag that was stashed there. He stripped out of the form-fitting long-sleeved shirt he was wearing—now stained with dirt and blood that was hard to distinguish against the black material—and exchanged it for a neatly folded yellow shirt with the Hyperion logo emblazoned across it. The calf-high boots he wore with the steel toes were removed next, and in their place he slipped on a pair of trainers. Satisfied, the trunk was closed and he slid into the car’s driver’s seat, clicking on the phone that was suspended in its cradle on the dashboard. He’d missed several calls from a number he didn’t recognize and a single text message. When he opened the message, it was simply marked **URGENT**. Again, he didn’t recognize the number it had come from. A glance at the time told him it was already after midnight. The calls were timestamped thirty minutes earlier. Jack didn’t have any real friends that might be hurt or in a bind except for Nisha Kadam, and his only family was his twin brother, Tim, and his daughter, Angel. If anything had happened to them…. He checked to see if anyone had left a voicemail and felt his heart give a hefty thump when he saw that there were indeed messages. Accessing his mailbox, he did his best to stay calm and listen.

But before he could even finish the voicemail, what he’d heard the person on the other end relaying had him throwing the car into drive and speeding down the pitted dirt road at a rate that would probably have his car at the mechanic sooner than later. He didn’t care. The makeshift forest rushed by on either side of him. He pushed down even harder on the gas, willing the vehicle to hit the main road faster than it could manage. As soon as he merged on to it, it would be just a short half mile to the highway. Thankfully, it was late enough that there wasn’t any traffic, and the car tore down the asphalt without hindrance. It was sheer luck that there was no patrol out that night to halt Jack’s raging path.

He was speeding with such tunnel vision that he nearly missed his exit. The car veered onto the off ramp with a screech of tires, and he blew the red light that greeted him at the end of it. Once more, he didn’t care. His destination was only a few more blocks up, and he managed to get there violating only one or two more traffic laws. The armpits of his shirt were damp with sweat as he pulled into a parking space, his usually well coiffed hair plastered to his forehead. He burst from the car like a ratch in a feeding frenzy, stopping only to retrieve his wallet from the caddy in the center of the front seat. He never carried his wallet when he was indulging in his pastime, and he was glad that he somehow remembered that fact in the midst of his panic. Otherwise, when he came barreling through the hospital’s automatic doors and started barking at the emergency room receptionist, it would have probably been much harder a task to explain to her who he was.

She wanted him to sit down, wanted him to wait among the handful of forlorn and haggard looking people in the waiting room. He refused, raising such a commotion that a security guard made his way over. Jack was ready to defend himself if need be, all clenched jaw and fists, his heterochromatic eyes murderous. Thankfully, it never escalated. Hospital personnel swooped in before Jack could even get a chance to start swinging, explaining that they would escort him into the bowels of the ER. Though he heard them, it took a few seconds for the words to register. His temper began its slow descent, though anxiety still bound him in its razor coils. He managed to keep himself from shaking, managed to put one foot in front of the other and follow, the only telling factor that he was in any distress at all the wrinkles in his forehead. 

The doctor was standing outside the room he was shown to, talking to what looked like another doctor and a nurse. There was a police officer there as well, standing with his arms crossed over his chest, whose radio occasionally crackled and spat out some random bit of conversation from the dispatcher. The officer was the first to notice Jack after his escort leaned in and said something to the group, lowering his arms and stepping over.

There weren’t any formalities. “You the father?” Jack was asked in a deadpan.

For a while, Jack just stared at the man. He didn’t like police, didn’t like having an officer so close to him. Especially after what he had done tonight. But he managed to find his composure. 

“Yeah,” he said, as if letting all the air out of his lungs. “Jack Lawrence.”

The officer nodded. “We’ve been trying to get in touch with you.”

“I got the message. Shit. Is she going to be okay? I was—”

“She’s just a little bruised and shaken up. You’ll have to talk to the doctor about her condition.” The officer’s face turned grim. “I wish I could put this more gracefully, but the woman who was listed as her mother, Chloe Eliades, didn’t make it. Was she your spouse?”

The only reaction Jack had to the news was the feeling of his mouth going dry. 

“Former. What happened?” he managed to ask. “And don’t goddam mince details, either.”

“It’s still under investigation.” At the look Jack shot him, the officer hooked his thumbs into his belt loops and sighed. “The official statement from the fire department was that they received a call from a neighbor some time after eleven when your daughter banged on their door. They couldn’t get much out of her other than that there was a fire. By the time officials arrived, the blaze was significant, so it probably started a good time before that. Right now the evidence is pointing to an unattended cigarette. Ms. Eliades had severe smoke inhalation and fatal burns. The doctor can tell you more. You have my condolences, Mr. Lawrence.”

Jack was no longer paying attention to the officer. He’d turned toward the door in the ER, which the doctor was blocking, and was now pushing his way past him. The man in the white coat said something to him, but it fell on deaf ears. Jack stepped over the threshold, his gaze fixed on the tiny figure laying in the bed. It was something out of a horror movie, as far as he was concerned. Her eyes were closed, the dark circles under them evident even as she slept. There was a tube in her nose feeding her oxygen, and one in her arm doing fuck knew what. Her brow was contorted the way no child’s should be, as if she were deep in a thicket of nightmares. He wanted to rip the tubes out, lift her from the bed and carry her from this awful place. Instead he forced himself to her bedside, his giant paw of a hand wrapping around her’s, making it look like that of a doll’s and just as fragile. 

“Angel?” he said, swallowing the lump threatening to rise in his throat. “Angel, hey, it’s daddy. Wake up, kiddo. Angel.”

“We’ve given her a mild sedative,” the doctor informed him, stepping into the room. “She’ll probably be asleep for a bit longer.”

“You gave my kid _drugs_ ,” Jack roared, flecks of foam spraying from his lips. His darkening gaze settled on the doctor, who, to his credit, didn’t flinch back.

“Mister Jack Lawrence, was it?” the doctor said without missing a beat. “My name’s doctor Vernon Zalesky. If you’ll step outside with me a moment, we can discuss Angel’s situation.”

“If you think I’m leaving my child’s side for a second, then you can fuck right off, doc.”

“Please, there’s no need for that language. I’m only suggesting we discuss matters elsewhere so we don’t disturb your daughter. But if you’d rather we talk here, than that will do.” Zalesky indicated a plastic molded seat that was propped against the wall. “Have a seat, Mister Lawrence.”

“What, am I being interrogated?” Jack snapped back, his thoughts jumbled and irrational. Combing his fingers through his hair, he took a deep breath and threw up his hands. Promptly he flung himself down in the chair. “Fine. Whatever. Just…tell me what you need to tell me.”

“Thank you for your cooperation.” 

The doctor cleared his throat and removed the electronic chart from where it was tucked under his arm. He scrolled down the screen, his eyes passing over the information there.

And then he began to speak.

**Another Fine Morning in Pandora City**

Before his alarm could go off, Rhys awakened to the sound of heavy beats filtering through his bedroom wall. He groaned, grabbing his cell phone from the nightstand and squinting at the time. According to the clock, he still had a whopping forty minutes of sleep left to enjoy. But he couldn’t achieve that with all the noise the thin walls were letting through. His knuckles rapped against the plaster under a poster for a Hack-a-thon from three years ago, as if he could do battle with the noise itself.

“Dammit, Calypso, can’t you give me just one more hour?”

Surprisingly, the music diminished in volume. Rhys thought he heard a muffled snicker, but he couldn’t be sure. Still, any chance of getting that remaining forty minutes of sleep was obliterated now. Pulling the covers off of himself, Rhys couldn’t find it in him to be tired anymore. He groaned again.

Living next to the Calypsos was the least of his worries. Sure, the twin brother and sister had no discernible schedule, being Echonet influencers, and were up at any and all hours of the day. They threw parties with too many people crammed into their apartment space, which meant they often spilled out into the hallway. And they drank and did who knew what kind of drugs, usually in full view of their neighbors without a care in the world. But none of these things compared to the fact that, despite having the Calypsos as neighbors, Rhys’ apartment and its complex would have been absolutely abysmal regardless. Aside from the aforementioned thin walls, the heat and air conditioning worked on a strictly sporadic schedule. Which meant he froze in the winter and baked in the summer. The shower was cold more often than it was hot. The water was sometimes rusty. And the toilet had backed up on at least one occasion. The linoleum on the kitchen floor was warped and peeling. The rugs everywhere else were old and thin. The only thing that wasn’t in total states of disrepair were the furniture and the paint on the walls. Rhys checked the latter for the day it finally started cracking frequently.

The apartment was a dump, pure and simple, but it was his dump. Well, his and his friend Vaughn’s, and it was all they could afford on their measly entry level salaries in Pandora City. They were just lucky they had more space than some of the closet-sized places their friends from college had moved on to after graduation. 

Giving up on sleeping entirely, Rhys rolled out of bed and followed the scent of frying bacon to the kitchen. Vaughn was sliding the crispy slices on to two plates when he walked in. Rhys bid his friend good morning, grabbed a box of sugary cereal from on top of the fridge, and poured himself a bowl. With a spoon, he dug into it dry, popping bites of bacon into his mouth between mouthfuls.

“Someday you’ll join the rest of civilization and eat your cereal with milk,” Vaughn quipped from his seat at the breakfast table.

Rhys shrugged. “We only have soy milk, and I’m too lazy to run down to the store to buy the real deal.”

“You’ve never even tried the soy, bro. You could at least try it once. I’ve been reading up on how much better it is for you.”

“How do you even milk soy, anyway? No, don’t tell me. It’s probably horrible.”

“Don’t be an ass about it. If you don’t want to try it, then fine. I’ll just be the healthier of the two of us around here.”

Around his spoonful, Rhys smiled. “Sounds good to me.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s vegan bacon you’re eating, by the way.”

“Way to ruin my breakfast, Vaughn.”

His friend smiled sheepishly.

Finishing up his cereal, Rhys rinsed out the bowl and called dibs on the shower. The water took a few minutes to warm up, and he made sure to be quick, as to not use all the hot water. He brushed his teeth and styled his hair until it was impeccable, then got dressed in his room. While he waited for Vaughn to get ready, he opened his laptop and rifled through his echo-mail. There was a coupon code for food delivery that he’d probably use for lunch, as well as a digest format message highlighting several new threads posted to forums he was following. He’d save reading those for his commute on the train. Navigating instead to his Hive account, the colloquial name for the social media site for posting concise messages and anecdotes known as The Rakk Hive, he clicked the Trending button on top of the screen and proceeded to scroll through the morning news. A headline with an attached video caught his eye. 

**Local Authorities Set To Open Investigation On Disappearance of Hyperion CEO Two Years Ago After New Evidence Recently Uncovered**

Hyperion. Ever since he’d gone to university for computer science, It was Rhys’ dream to work for the company that dominated Pandora City. They boasted the best job perks, the most competitive salaries; were home to the most famous and brilliant scientists and engineers. Their retirement packages were even top notch. To say Rhys was obsessed with one day working for them was an understatement. 

Such, he’d followed the news story about their CEO’s mysterious disappearance religiously when it had first broken headlines. It was an eerie case with a distressing lack of evidence. The officials suspected a serial killer based on a pattern that they wouldn’t disclose to the public, but there wasn’t any solid proof of that. The case gained so much media buzz and pop culture attention that they’d made a special two hour special about it for one of those dramatic retelling mystery shows. Rhys owned it on Holo, but hadn’t thought of it since the case had trickled slowly out of the public’s eye. That was probably about to change.

Just as he was moving his cursor to click the link, however, Vaughn hollered that he was ready. Rhys bookmarked the article, supposing it would have to wait for later as well. With reluctance, he shut down the laptop and went to grab his coat, keys, and messenger bag.

As he and Vaughn stepped out in the hallway, he noticed the apartment door next to theirs was propped open. Leaning in the doorway in just boxer shorts and a loose tank top was one of the Calypsos, Troy. His ice blue gaze fell on them at their appearance, and he raised the object in his hand to his lips, inhaling deeply from it. From the pungent stench of the smoke he exhaled, Rhys knew right away it wasn’t any normal cigarette.

“You two off to the rat race like always?” he asked them, stretching his heavily tattooed body like a cat. “Glad I don’t gotta deal with that shit. I’d fucking kill myself if I had to dress in a monkey suit and work for the man every day.”

“Your opinion has been dutifully noted,” Rhys said, not entirely unfriendly. 

“We get to wear our civilian clothes on Fridays,” Vaughn added, a little less friendly.

When it came to the Calypsos, Rhys and Vaughn had varying opinions on their neighbors. Rhys didn’t entirely dislike Troy and his sister Tyreen. Sure, sometimes they were a nuisance. But if he had to be honest, he _had_ subscribed to their Echo streams and could appreciate their youthful rebellion on some level, even though they had laughed at him when he managed to gather the courage to complain to their faces about their occasionally disruptive behavior. They were immature and probably had a bit of soul searching to do, in his opinion. Vaughn, on the other hand, could barely tolerate them. He didn’t appreciate their disregard for everyone and everything around them, and thought them obnoxious. The charm their fans saw in them was beyond his comprehension. He lamented often to Rhys how he’d hope they’d hurry up in getting evicted already.

Of course, they never did. People rarely were evicted in their complex, outside of not paying the rent. The fact that a landlord even existed was nearly a myth.

“Sorry about the noise this morning,” Troy apologized, taking another drag of his joint. “Tyreen was trying to wake me up.”

“Do you have to smoke that in the hall?” Vaughn asked, waving his hand in the air. “I don’t need to go to work smelling like a stoner.”

“Ain’t doing nothing illegal. Maybe you should have a hit. It’ll take the edge off.”

“Uh, no thanks. I tend to avoid putting foreign substances in my body.”

“Suit yourself. Don’t complain to Rhys about how your life is totally lame and you need something more exciting in it, then.” Troy tapped the wall with his prosthetic fingers. “Thin walls, remember?”

“So you just listen to our conversations then, huh?” 

The junction where Troy’s prosthetic met his shoulder rolled in a lazy shrug. “I’m sure you’ve heard ours.”

“Sure. And your fights. And, well…everything else I don’t want to hear. Don’t remind me.”

His apartment door creaked as Troy shifted positions, standing at his full height. Compared to Vaughn, he was like a giant looming over the city it was about to destroy. Thankfully, he looked less enraged and more amused, if the smirk on his face was anything to go by.

“I can’t help it if my bed sees more action than yours, little guy.”

“Ah, gross,” Vaughn said at the same time that Rhys interjected with, “We probably should get going if we don’t want to miss our train.”

“Watch where you step on the second floor landing. Somebody let their dog take a piss there or something. Or maybe it was a person. People suck.”

“Wouldn’t put it past someone in this building,” Rhys said in mostly agreement. “We’ll take the elevator.”

As they boarded, Troy saluted them and retreated back into his apartment. Once his door was closed and the elevator doors had followed suit, Vaughn was quick to complain.

“What the hell is that guy’s problem?”

“He’s alright,” Rhys answered as the elevator descended, trying not to sound too defensive. “A bit of a dick sometimes, sure. But dealing with Tyreen can be a lot worse.”

“I don’t know about that.” From behind his glasses, Vaughn squinted at his friend. “You don’t happen to have a secret crush on him that you’re not telling me about, do you?”

“No!” Rhys’ tone was adamant, though he couldn’t help the splotch of red that set his face aglow regardless. “I watch their game streams. That’s all. Hell, you know I’ve turned down the party invitations.”

“Just had to be sure.”

“He’s not even my type.”

“Relax. I believe you, bro.” Vaughn looked down as if in contemplation, patting at his stomach. “Wouldn’t blame you if you were, though. The guy’s ripped. Wish my abs would hurry up and get that defined.”

“Hey, you’ve only just started the gym a month ago. You’ll get there. I believe in you.”

“Maybe I’d be more motivated to push myself if you actually joined me once in a while. You know, like you said you would.”

The look on Rhys’ face was sheepish. “You and I both know I turned out to be a lousy gym rat.”

“You play a mean game of squash, though. You’ve beaten me, like, every time.”

“We only played three times. And that last was a forfeit because you got nailed in the balls.”

“Well, yeah.” Vaughn winced. “I think I’m actually bruised for life after that. But hey, I can still admire your technique.”

The two of them chuckled in unison just as the elevator completed its descent. There was a ding and the doors opened to reveal the lobby. This early in the morning, it was quiet. Just an old lady fiddling with her mailbox and a woman leading two school aged children with brightly colored backpacks out the door. Rhys and Vaughn said their good mornings as they passed all of them, then stepped out onto the bustling, crowded streets of Pandora City. 

The sun was already high in the sky, piercing through thin streams of cloud cover and pollution to bake the inhabitants below. Cars and other vehicles passed by on the street, crawling at a lame skag’s pace in the rush hour traffic. Across the street, displayed on a jumbo holo screen affixed to a building there, was an advertisement for the latest blockbuster film, _Vault Hunters: Origins_. Rhys and Vaughn headed in that direction, the platform for the train they rode to work five days a week a mere block away. They stopped and bought coffees from a street vendor for the price of one credit each, feeling ready to wrestle whatever the day threw at them now that caffeine had been acquired.

On the train, Rhys managed to get through his forum posts, but ran out of time before he could watch the news article he’d bookmarked on the Hive. There’d be plenty of down time at work, though, if he knew his job well enough. And, besides, he was good at multitasking if not downright hiding what he was _really_ up to.

At the nondescript building they worked at, which boasted a small logo that read Lumietech done in brass above the automatic doors, Rhys and Vaughn parted ways, the latter of them off to the accounting department while Rhys headed for data analytics. With their badges clipped to their lanyards, they punched in at their respective stations, officially ready to begin another grueling work day.

XXX

When Jack woke up at approximately five a.m. that morning and tuned the holo screen in his home gym to the news, he forgot all about his morning exercise routine. In Hyperion gold gym shorts, a boxing glove fitted on to one of his beefy fists, and nothing else, he stood there watching the report as if he’d been frozen by a blast of cryo. At first, the reporter’s words were seemingly jumbled and muffled. They took their time registering in his brain. That was before the program cut to an image of an abandoned Atlas testing site, the building there still standing, despite the state of its dilapidated walls.

Then they showed the tin barrel.

And people in yellow bio-hazard suits prying open the lid.

The news cast cut back to the reporter before what was inside could be revealed, but Jack didn’t need to see to know what it was. He had once upon a time had his arms up to his gloved elbows in those contents. 

It occurred to him that he should have been feeling something in that moment. Panic, maybe. Pride. Amusement even. But his heart remained beating out its normal rhythm in his chest, the rest of him, despite his fascination, left hollow, plagued by nothing more than emptiness. He was all too familiar with that emptiness, too. Sometimes there was rage and there was pain and lust. For Angel and Tim, the flicker of protectiveness and possessiveness, which, he supposed, was his own brand of love. But otherwise, whatever made other people themselves had withered and died inside him a long time ago. Compassion and empathy were but concepts human kind had made up to make themselves feel better, as far as he knew.

He supposed the news report did make him feel one other thing, though. A familiar itch underneath his skin that he hadn’t felt in a very long time. It wracked his body, so bad that he could feel it even in his gums, right over his canines, like he was some kind of vampire who’d caught the scent of fresh blood. He licked at his teeth, felt how dry the space between his gums and his lip was. For a long time, he stood there, trying to figure out what his mind wanted him to do.

Eventually, he crept back up the stairs to his bedroom, careful not to wake anyone. The light in his walk-in closet was snapped on, and he took the crowbar hidden behind a swath of unused suit coats, prying up the loose floorboard there. The safe built into the floor was easy enough to remember the code to, and soon his prize was in his hands, the leather cover just as soft and supple as the day he’d bought the photo album. He opened it to the last page he’d used, the date scrawled next to the final photo plastered there. 

Two years ago. That’s how long it had been since that particular entry. His eyes fell on the picture itself, the wife and children ignored while he focused on the figure of the father. Or, as he knew the man better, his former boss Maxim Turner, the Hyperion CEO at the time. The hands in the picture, folded formerly in front of the man’s waist, he’d shaken on more than one occasion. The face he remembered not for its presence in his workplace, but for the way it had turned red, and purple, and blue when he’d strangled the man. The cold stare was beguiling. The man’s eyes hadn’t been cold at all when he’d wrangled them from their sockets and crushed them like ripe grapes in his palm. And the man’s squat figure—well, that had been a real bitch to work with, but Jack had managed to fit him in the barrel of acid after some practical dismemberment. Maxim’s severed head had floated to the top before he’d closed the lid, the crowning ingredient in the macabre soup. He’d given its sightless gaze a huge, shit-eating grin. 

The memories that flooded his mind he was fond of, and it triggered an avalanche. He flipped through the album, reminiscing about the kills that he had savored the most, staring at the photos of the victims and remembering their satisfying demises the way some people remembered childhood summers or trips to theme parks in their youth. He’d denied himself this simple pleasure for far too long. He’d _forgotten_ how it made him feel. Better than the best lay or the finest gourmet meal. And he wondered, without thinking too much about it, why he had ever _stopped_. There was nothing quite like being intoxicated just by watching the life ebb out of someone, the blood drain from their veins, their body go limp, the air siphoned from their lungs. Nothing to compare it to.

Then he recalled that fateful night of the final kill, and everything came crashing down. 

As if waking up from a dream, he blinked and looked around until he could just see the numbers on the alarm clock that sat on his nightstand. One of his palms came up to rub at his face, swiping chestnut locks off his brow. The photo album was snapped shut and slid back into the safe.

Right. The reason he’d given up his moonlighting gig. She’d be up soon and wanting her breakfast. Tim could probably handle that, but since Jack had foregone his exercise routine and had some extra time to cook instead of placating her with sugary cereal, he might as well do that.

Not long after replacing the board in the closet floor and taking a quick shower, Jack was dressed and rifling through the contents of his fridge. He took out eggs, bread and jam, butter, ketchup, cheese. Orange juice and milk. The coffee pot was filled with his and Tim’s favorite gourmet blend from Eden and switched on. By the time he heard the patter of small feet on the kitchen tile, he was separating scrambled eggs from a pan on to three plates and finishing them off with slices of toast.

“Hi, daddy,” came a sleepy voice, speared in the middle by a yawn. Upon seeing Jack set the table, the voice perked up considerably. “Wow, you made us breakfast!”

It was easy enough for Jack to fall into a fatherly role at the sight of Angel. It was something he had struggled with, when she’d first come to live with him after the fire. He didn’t know how to act around her, cursed too much, failed miserably at any of their social interactions. Luckily Tim had been there to swoop in and set the situation on the right path. Not only was he accustomed to Jack’s disposition and knew how to handle and guide him, but he proved to have good parental instincts. Which was surprising, considering they had grown up in the same dysfunctional, broken, abusive household as each other. Now having to be a dad was as easy as sliding into the worn and comfortable confines of a favorite outfit.

Jack smiled at his daughter, feeling that flame of protectiveness flare up in the darkened chambers of his heart. 

“I sure did, kiddo. Even put cheese in the eggs. What do you want on your toast? We’ve got butter, jam—”

Climbing into her favorite chair at the kitchen table, Angel set down her stuffed Pandoracorn with the screen embedded in its belly next to her plate. Then she loudly proclaimed, “Ooey, gooey, chewy skag guts!”

“I was saving those for myself, but if you really want ‘em….” 

Bursting into a fit of giggles, Angel picked up the bottle of ketchup and overturned it on her eggs, shaking it vigorously. Spatters of ketchup went everywhere, painting not only the plate but the table and her stuffed toy before finally landing on the eggs.

“Oops,” she said, grabbing the Pandoracorn and holding it out in Jack’s general direction. “Look, Buttstallion’s got boo-boos now. Will she have to go to the hospital and have an operation?”

“Nah, pumpkin.” Pouring himself a cup of coffee, Jack took his seat at the table and opened the jar of jam he’d set there. “I’m sure all she just needs is a coupla band-aids. You and uncle Tim can patch her up after breakfast and she’ll be good as new.”

“Who am I helping patch what now?” came a third voice.

From where he was spreading jam on Angel’s toast for her, Jack looked over at his brother’s arrival. He opened his mouth to speak, but his daughter cut him off.

“Look what happened, uncle Tim. Buttstallion got shot when I tried to use the ketchup!”

“Another Lawrence family breakfast table casualty,” Tim murmured as he grabbed his own cup of coffee. 

To Jack, Tim sounded a little grumpier than usual that morning, and a little snarkier. He watched his brother with narrowed eyes until Tim sat down and made an apologetic gesture.

“Sorry,” he said, sipping from his mug. “I must have gotten up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. Poor Buttstallion. Maybe you should see if her tummy still works, huh?” 

Shoveling a few bites of her eggs into her mouth, Angel grabbed the toy and pressed the activation switch. The screen in its stomach bled to life in a rainbow of color, then dulled as Angel fiddled with the controls. She stopped on an Echocast channel that was showing previously recorded footage of some VR music game. 

“It’s working!” Angel exclaimed brightly. “Thanks, uncle Tim. You’re the best.”

With a mouth full of food, Tim nodded, though it wasn’t quite clear what he had done to warrant the sentiment. The three of them ate in relative peace after that, save for the tinny blare of music coming from Buttstallion, which held Angel’s attention enraptured. When he was finished, Jack turned to Tim once more, again trying to speak with him. He was abruptly cut off by a cacophony that erupted from Buttstallion’s stomach.

_What’s up, super fans! Queen bee Tyreen here coming at you live for your early am tips on how to look like the baddest bitch on the block. Show those sluts and thots who the real diva is around town. Then, at noon, tune in for wake and bake with Troy where he showcases the latest in headshop paraphernalia and psychedelic remedies while answering all your thirsty fanmail. Sometimes he even does it naked. It’s all starting—_

The look on Jack’s face darkened, his heterochromatic eyes narrowing to pinpoints. The rage spiraled up inside him, swift and fierce as a dust devil, and he slammed his palm down on the table so hard everything upon it rattled. 

“Angel, what the _hell_ is that you’re watching?” he snarled, akin to an animal defending its young from poaching hands. “You better turn that frickin’ crap off _right this instant_.” 

Angel let out a noise not unlike a startled bird. She fumbled with the stuffed toy, tuning the screen to a random Echocast. With bottom lip promptly curled over her top, it began to tremble, and she looked at her father with wide, shining eyes.

“I’m sorry, daddy.” The words passed from her lips as if her throat were hoarse. There was a sniffle. “I just wanted to watch them play Raiders. They streamed it after my bedtime so I didn’t get to see it, and I really wanted them to win.”

It took all of Jack’s effort not to stand up and topple the table over. Through his nostrils, his breath huffed like some feral beast out for blood’s. 

“Angel, hunny,” he said through gritted teeth. “Are you telling me you watch these assholes regularly?”

His daughter knew better than to hesitate to answer him when he got this angry with her. She made another small noise and nodded.

“Please don’t be mad,” she added, the words pleading.

Though the anger was roiling and the rage thick, the words managed to pull Jack back from the edge enough to collect himself. Instead, he turned his attention to Tim. His brother was considerably paler than earlier, and looked to be in the midst of some state of shock. No doubt he’d been bracing himself for one of Jack’s meltdowns, worried that they weren’t exactly in the clear just yet.

“Timothy,” Jack said, and that he was using Tim’s full name was alarming unto itself. “I’m _really_ curious. I mean, I just can’t figure this out. Cos I’m pretty sure I pay you a very fair wage and also provide you with a cushy frickin’ _mansion_ to live in when you could be slummin’ it in one of grannie’s old complexes in exchange for managing my child’s wellbeing when I’m not capable. Which includes, oh, funny enough, setting the goddam parental controls correctly on her frickin’ toys.”

“I _did_ set the controls right,” Tim insisted, animated by the severity of the accusation. “I programmed it exactly to the specifications you told me to. I don’t know how the hell she could’ve gotten around them.”

“Because, Timothy, my daughter is _brilliant_ and _gifted_ and _talented_. Things you will likely never be yourself. And she can damn well figure out when you’ve been slacking off or sloppy with something and find her way around it.”

Tim didn’t get a moment to feel the full explosive impact of Jack’s comments. Butting in was Angel, who was swift to defend her uncle.

“Daddy, stop! It wasn’t uncle Tim’s fault.” She sounded adamant beyond her years, finding indignation in watching her father verbally flay the only other relative she had in her life alive. Sometimes Jack forgot how much she could be his daughter, and it prompted him to give up on his quest to tear Tim down for no good reason other than righteous anger. “Presley Montacue was bragging in school how he found all the coolest Raiders streams, and that you couldn’t find them on the plain regular Echonet, and that they taught you how to be the best player ever, and it sounded really cool, and I wanted to see them too, so I told him my daddy would come to his house and fire his daddy in front of him and his mommy and make them cry if he didn’t show me how to see the streams.”

“Angel, breathe,” Jack told her. Thick fingers combed his hair back from his forehead, itching to wrangle it like he was managing to do to his temper. “What did I tell you about repeating things you might hear me say in the house out loud to other people?”

“I know, but it was so unfair. Presley just did it to make me mad because he knows I’m better than him at Raiders. And his daddy always makes _you_ so mad that you use the _really_ bad words.”

In his head Jack was secretly proud of his daughter’s logical leap to why the Montacue kid deserved to be manipulated, but he knew it unwise to show an ounce of that pride. Still, it managed to quell the remainder of his temper, tilting his emotions towards a more amused state. Sullivan Montacue, father of Presley, was a smug piece of shit that worked under him and tried his best to undermine his position as Head of Engineering every day. Too bad he’d come to work for engineering after Jack had doused his own second, less professional career in as much acid as one of his victims. Otherwise he would’ve earned a spot on Jack’s hit list, and moved straight to the top. Of course, killing someone with such close work ties was much like shitting where he ate, and he tried to avoid it if he could. Hell, even his final victim, the then Hyperion CEO, had been more than a little risky, even if they didn’t have much contact at work. But sometimes risks were worth it, and he was always meticulous about planning a kill, always so careful from the moment he chose the victim to the second the life was finally snuffed out of them. Murdering Sullivan would just take a little bit more work on his part. 

Then he remembered there would be no more murders for him. At least, not at the moment. Especially not of Sullivan, where Jack could easily become someone to question if not a direct person of interest. It soured his mood a bit.

“That doesn’t excuse your behavior, pumpkin,” Jack answered, choosing to move on from at least that part of the current crises. “I’ll let you off with a warning this time. Next time, you’ll lose Raiders privileges. Sound fair?”

Angel whined but agreed with him.

“Now, tell me how Presley showed you how to find these streams.”

She did, detailing how he’d given her a code file to plug in for bypassing parental locks, down to how she’d had to download a specific Echo browser to access certain sites. The one she was most fond of, and the culprit in question, was one she called the C.O.V. AKA the Children of the Vault, according to her. It was apparently their Raiders cabal name. That wasn’t really Jack’s utmost concern. What _was_ concerning was that the site was privately owned and funded, if the backdoor view he managed to dig up with one of his work tools was anything to go by. Not really too deep net enough to be embroiled in illegal affairs, but enough off-grid to raise an eyebrow. Whoever these people were, they didn’t want to be bound to any Echonet decency laws, which was obvious enough. Not that the Pandora City Police Department would actually concern themselves with some idiot flashing his junk on an Echocast while he likely overdosed on stream. Only investors cared about content like that, not wanting the pants sued off them if someone’s dumdum child attempted that shit back home. The PCPD had bigger fish and all. Like packs of nomadic, bloodthirsty bandits roaming in from the wastes to wreak their own brand of havoc in the city on the daily.

And, of course, people like the man Jack used to be.

Anyway, he didn’t have the time that morning to attempt a full and thorough trip down the rabbit hole of pirate Echo sites nor remove the culprit programs from Angel’s tech. He’d have to discover the lurid details of the C.O.V’s ownership another time. Then he could do something about it. There were a number of tricks in his engineering and programming background that he could pull off to make a streamer’s existence a nice little slice of hell.

Nobody fucking _influenced_ his daughter. Especially Echonet trash. 

“Wait until I see that dickhole Montacue at work today,” Jack grumbled, pushing back his chair.

As if released from some spell, Tim finally found the courage to speak again. “Maybe you should, er, not really be saying that right now.”

Jack looked at Angel, who had returned to finishing her breakfast. She was no longer boisterous and excited, her confession having siphoned her energy. She ate quietly without looking up.

“You’re right,” Jack said as he stood, loading his plate into the dishwasher. He paused for a moment, shaking his head. “Jeez, it’s going to be one of those fucking days, isn’t it?”

Angel set her fork down. She got up from her seat, running over to her father and throwing her arms around his waist, hugging him tight.

“I’ll be good for the rest of the day today,” she told him. “I promise.”

For a moment, Jack didn’t reciprocate the affection. Then he caught Tim giving him a look and promptly bent down to hug her back.

“I’m sure you will, kiddo. Stay away from that dumb Presley kid. If he bothers you again, you tell uncle Tim after school, okay? We’ll deal with him.”

“Are you gonna kick his butt?”

“From here to Elpis.”

“No, we are certainly _not_ going to do that,” Tim piped up, but there was the faintest hint of a grin on his face. Jack could tell he was trying not to let it show. His next words were addressed to Jack. “You think you’ll be home before five today? Angel has an appointment later. The therapist was hoping you’d be there this week to sit in on a session.”

“Maybe. I’ll call you and let you know. If not, pick up some take-out on your way home.”

“The usual Thai place sound good?”

Jack straightened up and shrugged. “Whatever works for you two. I gotta get some crap in order before I leave. I’ll see you both later.”

With a ruffle of Angel’s hair, Jack turned to exit the kitchen.

“Bye, daddy!” she shouted after him, drawing out both words. “I love you!”

“Love you too, kiddo,” he called back to her, flipping her a wave.

Then he was gone.

From his place at the kitchen table, Tim let out a deep breath. When he tried to smile at his niece, it came out wobbly.


	2. Prey Tell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: graphic descriptions of death and corpses

By the time Rhys had made it through the morning’s workload, the reports about the disappearance of the old Hyperion CEO had trickled from a few select news alerts into mainstream coverage, complete with graphic depictions shot right on the crime scene location. Earlier that morning, a special report had been broadcast from the wreckage of an abandoned Atlas outpost, depicting the uncovering of human remains. Pushing his earbuds in, Rhys enlarged the video on his computer screen and clicked play. 

_Skeletal remains discovered in an oil barrel filled with a deadly amount of glandular extract from acidic subspecies of skags were verified to be of human origin. As you can see displayed, the bones are very brittle. Acidic skag extract is often traded on the black market to make homemade elemental ammunition, but typically can only be purchased in small quantities due to the dangerous nature of acquisition. Heavily damaged cybernetic fragments thought to be part of a respiratory system and part of a cerebral cortex were discovered along with the remains. Though no information can be extracted from the cortex in its current state, officials are hopeful that lab reconstruction may uncover valuable information regarding the case. Scans of the other fragments found revealed that the cybernetics were manufactured and likely surgically installed by Hyperion. Several numerical identification factors matched those consistent with ones belonging to Maxim Turner, the Hyperion CEO that disappeared two years ago._

The shot on Rhys’ screen cut to two individuals in biohazard suits arranging bones on a clear tarp, mapping out a squat skeleton there. Though it was merely bones, the morbidity of the newscast made Rhys glad he hadn’t eaten lunch yet. In Pandora City, death was far from uncommon. And in the Borderlands, it was even more than that. Worshiped, welcomed; part of those who dared try scraping a life out there in those unlawful, hellish wastes. Though Rhys originally hailed from the Promethea region, which could often be more steeped in corruption than Pandora in the way it was governed, he didn’t have the stomach for this type of depraved violence and its aftermath. Pandora City was supposed to be his chance at opportunity, both figuratively and literally. An opportunity to work for the most prestigious and powerful company in the galaxy, Hyperion, and a chance at moving on to that little slice of utopia it had carved out for its top employees, the suburbs of Opportunity.

“What in the fresh hell are you watching there, Reeces’ Pieces?”

The voice was close, carrying through the earbuds. Rhys was startled, gripping the edge of the desk, knuckles turning white. With mouth agape, he turned to see a familiar blond man leaning down to peer into his cubicle. The shocked look on Rhys’ face melted into a scowl almost instantly.

“I told you not to call me that, _Auggie_.” 

It was the other man’s turn to scowl. 

“That’s August to you, chump,” he said, straightening up, arms crossed over his chest.

“And my name is _Rhys_.”

The two locked smoldering gazes with each other. Rhys was the first to crack, expression slackening into something more friendly. It took a bit longer for August to follow suit, but eventually he relaxed. After all, not many workers acknowledged the office mail clerk. August was lucky to get a grunt or even a nod as he delivered memos, packages, and other miscellaneous correspondences to individual cubicles. But Rhys had been different, the two striking up a friendship when August discovered Rhys flavoring his workspace. It was Rhys’ first week with the company, and along with the succulent plant, a talking cl4p-tp unit figurine, a jar full of individually wrapped chocolates, some kind of miniature robotic toy that answered yes or no questions, one poster advertising a campaign expansion for Bunkers and Badasses and one for a beachfront vacation in the Eden region, he’d been putting up stickers for different professional Raiders cabals. One particular sticker had caught August’s attention.

_“No offense, but you don’t look at all like you’d be into the C.O.V,” August had said. “Those assclowns could probably pull some real rank if they actually managed to play the game instead of ruining it for everyone else.”_

_The first reaction Rhys underwent was to be taken off guard. The second, coming a few ticks of the clock later, was to be snarky._

_“Considering you and I happen to be total strangers, I’m pretty sure that makes you the least qualified person to know what I’m into.”_

_“Then let’s not be strangers. Name’s August, one of the mail clerks around this dump.”_

_With some reluctance, Rhys replied with his own name. “And the C.O.V do actually play,” he added. “They would’ve taken the crown during the Bloody Raiders Bowl if the Sanctuary Saviors didn’t play dark horse and annihilate those last rounds.”_

_“Man, Sanctuary is such b.s. It’s like they coast on sheer luck and have no real skill. Yet hardly anyone’s kicked their asses in a tournament. It makes zero sense. My own cabal is pretty much on their skill level, yet we haven’t been able to even rank very high._

_“Oh, yeah? What’s your cabal name?”_

_“Purple Skags.”_

_“Never heard of it.”_

_“Not yet, you haven’t. We’re recruiting, if you got the skills for it and might be interested.”_

_“Ah, sorry.” And here Rhys finally chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know my way around the game well enough, but I’m definitely a casual player. The only interest I have in professional gaming is watching it.”_

_“Fair enough. Offers always open, if you change your mind.”_

From there, Rhys and August had remained rather chummy. They occasionally played Raiders together along with Vaughn, if August was looking to practice or for a more laid back game outside of his cabal. They had drinks together outside work, chatted over their lunch breaks. August had introduced Rhys and Vaughn to two members of his cabal, Fiona and Sasha. They were sisters, and Rhys suspected that the man had been trying to play matchmaker at the time. That hadn’t exactly worked out, but they were all still friends. It was strange, Rhys and August’s friendship, roughened at the edges and thuggish as the latter man was, geekier than thou as Rhys could be. Somehow it managed to work. 

August uncrossed his arms and leaned against the cubicle panel, bringing Rhys back to the present.

“Seriously, what is that?” he asked, gesturing to the computer. “Looks like someone went and had themselves a murder party. Never pegged you for a true crime enthusiast.”

Turning back to the screen, Rhys watched a second or two more of the footage that was still playing. He closed the newscast when one of the figures in the biohazard suits picked up a bone to showcase it for the camera’s eye. It splintered in their grasp. Rhys removed his earbuds and turned his attention fully to August.

“No, I most definitely am not,” he replied. “You remember when the Hyperion CEO disappeared some years ago? It was all over the news.”

“Vaguely. I don’t really follow that corporate crap. Or the news. You live in Pandora City. How naive do you gotta be that someone has to spoonfeed you stories about how crappy it usually is?”

“Sure, of course. But Hyperion’s president vanishing without a trace, that shakes up a lot of financial infrastructure. Even you have to admit that.”

“Okay. It doesn’t exactly change anything, though. He was probably bumped off by his own kin for the money or someone in the company wanted him gone. Isn’t that the way it usually goes?”

“You would think so.” Eyes flickering to his screen, Rhys realized he’d closed the newscast and brought up a prompt box. “But there was some out-there theories about it. There was even some initial evidence that had PCPD considering they were dealing with a serial killer.”

“Just what I needed to hear on my rounds. Conspiracy theory bullcrap.”

The look on Rhys’ face was etched in confusion. “I don’t think that counts as a conspiracy theory.” 

He typed something into the prompt, launching a new browser. One whose activity couldn’t be traced, if the company he worked for decided to investigate his access history. It was an undetectable phantom program he’d coded and installed quite awhile ago. Considering the company’s security was nothing short of spectacularly shitty, it hadn’t exactly been a complicated undertaking. With a few keystrokes, he brought up a news archive and database, typing in a few keywords. Several files came up.

“Whatever it is, it sounds like they’re just making stuff up for publicity.”

“I guess it’s a possibility, maybe. But I don’t know.” With a narrowing of his eyes, Rhys clicked one of the files and brought up an article discussing the sudden disappearances of several key corporate figures in the last five years. Which wouldn’t have been such a strange phenomenon, really. Wealthy, influential people vanished in the corporate world all the time for various reasons. As August had more or less pointed out earlier. “There was another instance of someone discovering a body at an old Atlas farmstead. Only it wasn’t a body, just bones that had been recently, er, marinating in something acidic. And before you say that’s nothing special, the missing Hyperion CEO? Also found at an old Atlas site, also…well, I don’t know how much you saw, but only bones were left.”

“Jesus fucking christ, Rhys,” August said, sounding hoarse as he moved in to get a closer look at the article. “You almost sound a little too into this shit.”

Rubbing at his temples, Rhys shook his head, trying to look sheepish. “Yeah, it’s, uh, it’s getting to me, too. Not my typical obsession, huh?” He tried laughing, but it came out forced. “The only reason I’m even interested is because it involves Hyperion. I can’t resist the corporate politics of it all.”

“You’re always going on about Hyperion, but come on, Rhys. Even your damn obsession can’t make you so blind you don’t see that a corporation like that would step on the backs of guys like us before they ever offered us a job. Getting hired there isn’t about all that stuff you go on about, like blood, sweat, and tears. It’s about whose back you’re willing to jam a knife in and whose dick you’re willing to suck on command. It’s literally about corporate cocksucking. Open wide, ‘cause it’s all about that deep throat action.”

“Alright, alright, I think you’ve made your point already.” Slumping in his chair, Rhys snorted. “Also, you may or may not have an infatuation with oral sex. Which I honestly didn’t need to know.”

Backing away, August’s shoulders heaved in a shrug. “Just trying to get you to understand how it all works.”

“Thanks, but I didn’t exactly need a tirade. I hear plenty of those without consulting my friends.” Clicking out of the window on his computer screen, Rhys decided to abandon the topic at hand, filing it away for another time. There was only so much morbidity he could take anyway, and it didn’t exactly invoke workplace appropriate conversation. He swiveled in his chair, then seemed to perk up, as if remembering something. “Doing a complete one-eighty here, I know, but do you actually have any mail for me?”

Stepping over to where he’d left his mail cart in the aisle, August rifled through the envelopes and packages until he fished one out. It was small and unassuming, addressed to Rhys and marked fragile.

“That was the reason I stopped by in the first place.” The blond handed it over. “You expecting something special?”

The package was turned over several times in Rhys’ hands. “Maybe,” he said, grabbing a letter opener from his desk drawer. “Do you know what department it came from?”

“Pretty sure it was Marketing. Could be wrong.”

“Ah, that’d make sense,” Rhys said more to himself. The blade tore through the packaging with ease. From it slid a small plastic case containing a data chip. He fumbled the case open, plugging the chip into the reader built into his computer. “Sorry, but I’m going to have to kick you out to look at this. Company secrets and all.”

August didn’t protest. “I’ve got to get back to work anyway. I’ve pretty much passed the alotted time for slacking off before my superiors notice.”

“Before lunch even? That might be your new record for efficient time wasting on the company’s dime.”

“If my dick gets put in a sling for it, I’m blaming you and your weird fixation with some Hyperion stooge’s murder.”

“Which I, not having any idea what you’re talking about, will vehemently deny.”

August scoffed. He pushed his cart forward a few inches. “Sometimes I wonder why I even stay friends with you, Rhys.” 

The words were harsh, but Rhys saw through them. “Must be all my _savoir faire_. You still on for lunch with me and Vaughn? I got coupons.”

“You trying to bribe me with discounts?” At Rhys’ eye roll, he smirked and said, “Sure, man, whatever. Shoot me a message when you’re ready to order.”

“Will do,” Rhys called to his retreating form.

By the time August had made it to his next drop off, Rhys was already rooting around the files on the data chip. He bypassed opening most of them, concentrating on the single executable file in the root menu. Clicking it, a message popped up on his screen.

_The data from REDACTED satellite transmittance you’ve been decrypting regarding UNDISCLOSED LOCATION has been organized for ease of access. This data chip is your copy of that information. If you misplace it or find it missing, you will be held accountable, and a replication will not be issued to you. Should you decide to find all risks involved with your proposition regarding the application of this information justifiable, please contact me at your convenience so that we may arrange a meeting._

_-K. Nguyen  
Chief Marketing Officer_

From somewhere deep within Rhys’ depths, a sense of giddiness was rising. He read the short note more than once, trying not to leap out of his chair with excitement. All the work he’d been doing the last few months, the unpaid overtime, the after hours research, the long, dull stretches of combing through endless lines of encrypted jumbles of code looked like it was finally coming to fruition. He was teetering on the edge of victory, so close to the verge of glory he could taste its sweet essence on his tongue. They’d _have_ to promote him after this. It would be criminal not to.

Once he’d properly contained himself and thought he was composed enough to handle a call, he fitted his earbuds back in. Then he commanded his desk console to connect him to the Marketing Officer, his heart thudding like a bass drum in his ears over the sound of the connecting jingle.

XXX

It was past noon, according to Jack’s watch, the clock on his curved computer screen, _and_ the smart console built into his desk. Which meant that, for the last two and a half hours, the only thing he’d managed to accomplish numbered in the single digits. Staring at the incomplete schematics for an upgrade to the last Echoeye model until his own eyes blurred, and retreating into his head until he’d zoned out completely. That’s what he’d been doing. The culprit responsible for his lapse in attention currently glowed from behind one of the windows open on his computer, frozen in time and beckoning like a coy lover. He minimized what was blocking it and pressed play, fast forwarding to just past the midway point.

Bones made brittle from soaking in an acid bath splintered in a yellow gloved hand. Corroded fragments of cybernetics were displayed. The reporter droned on, treading information Jack kept close to his dead, black heart. 

Though Jack had lost track of how many times he’d already seen the newscast, this viewing was the first time he was struck with brief but hearty laughter.

“Oh, ain’t that fucking _rich_ ,” he said aloud, folding his hands behind his head and leaning back in his chair, making the springs groan. “Didn’t know you were modded up, princess. Probably the only thing that was keeping that festering meatsack you called a body alive. Not that it mattered, ya know, considering how that worked out for you. Though that’s some real satire, lemme tell ya. Just think, same guy responsible for the beepity boops keeping your batteries juiced comes and bumps you off. I’m an irony _god_.”

Jack should probably be brimming with anxiety. They’d found the body of Maxim Turner, or what was left of it. He should probably be double-thinking if he’d disposed of the other evidence properly, or if anything could be traced back to him, or if he was even a suspect. 

He should be thinking about how that night had ended, how it had pierced through the veil that kept his life shrouded, how it ruined his meticulous plans for a future where he reveled in who and what he was.

And he should be thinking about the tendrils unfurling in the back of his mind, bloodthirsty and sinister. The way every time he watched the news footage his heart sped up and he licked his lips like a starving skag at the sight of something as meager as a bone.

What would be the fate of the next person who stepped into his office? Would the budding resurgence of an urge long dormant stare them down instead of him, size them up, see through the human mask to the prey beneath?

Such thoughts were sobering. He sat in dead silence, no longer amused by the things spiraling around in his head.

No, it didn’t work that way. Satisfaction only came from planning, hunting. Build up, then climax. A climax unlike any orgasm in the world, and that not even the best fuck could compete with. It ran hot and red with pain, with fear, with loathing.

The console in his desk rang. Jack stared at it, barely hearing the call, until he managed to tether himself back to the real world. It was like slipping in to a false skin, too tight and claustrophobic. Somehow he managed to sound normal when he answered.

“Lawrence.”

“John,” came the surly, stoic voice on the other end. “Would you care to explain to me exactly why R&D hasn’t received those schematics you were supposed to sign off on yet?”

Fucking Tassiter. Of course he’d be the one to have the gall to interrupt Jack’s work day. He was glad his boss had left the camera off. If he’d had to look at that sneering face at that moment, he didn’t think he could keep his emotions in check.

“Uh, yeah,” Jack said, thoughts racing towards a viable excuse. On his computer, he brought the plans for the Echoeye to the foreground. “The plans are only half-baked, sir. I’m having hang-ups about the way the new tech is being implemented. You know the deal. If you aren’t making corrections at every corner with these guys, you get stuck digging through the crap for the little things that kill.”

“And how exactly did those _little things_ slip through the approval process to begin with? Are you telling me your team were developing the upgrades without your input?”

“Course not, sir. There was just a lotta unforseen stuff with the new tech. Usual situation. Don’t want to waste the company’s time with a totally useless prototype, so I’m greasing the cogs a bit more.”

For a long time, Tassiter said nothing. Jack knew he hadn’t hung up. He could still hear the whisper of his breathing over the connection, and besides, he couldn’t be that lucky. On his desk was a stress toy in the shape of some cartoon character from one of Angel’s favorite programs. She’d given him the alienish, bright yellow toy for his last birthday, because it was her favorite character, and she knew yellow was his favorite color. As he waited for a response, he picked it up, squeezing. His grip was like iron, the tension making his hand tremble.

“Your dedication to the project is commendable,” Tassiter finally said, but his tone sounded like he believed anything but. “However, you’ve been granted plenty of time to _grease the cogs_. That schematic was scheduled to be presented to the board for production approval by noon today. And you’re telling me it’s not even complete. Do you understand what that means, John? Do you even want to hazard a guess?”

“I mean, I’m not one to assume, but I’m going to say it’s in the ballpark of, maybe, having to put in some overtime?”

“Without pay. Additionally, I’m filing a notice of insubordination with your employee record.”

“What?” Jack squeezed the toy so hard it almost burst at the seams. “Whaddya mean insubordination? Who exactly was I being insubordinate to?”

“Me.” The word was said in such a condescending tone that it was like the proverbial heel on Jack’s neck. “The entirety of the Hyperion Corporation. The Echoeye 2.0 is a very, very big deal for us. Once it reaches mass production, it will be the single most advanced cybernetic in the industry. Beyond that, if successful—and it will be successful—it will change the face of Hyperion’s cybernetic division forever. I refuse to let some arrogant, overpaid underling in engineering who thinks he’s some precious gift to this company ruin that all with his incompetence.”

Reeling from the words, Jack scowled at his desk, even though Tassiter couldn’t see his expression. “The hell you just say about me?” he said with a heaving breath, unconcerned with his tone. His fury burned white and hot. Visions of his hands around Tassiter’s throat flashed in his head, fingers squeezing the life out of his boss.

“I can speak to you however I see fit. You’re my employee, and as much as you’d love to think you have a say in how you’re to conduct yourself, you simply don’t. Have that schematic in the cloud ASAP. You’re not to step foot out of this building until it’s complete.”

The call ended.

There was a loud bang as Jack’s fist came down hard on his desktop. He gritted his teeth and stood, his chair squeaking as it was pushed back several feet. Vision swimming in red, he closed out every window on his computer save for the Echoeye schematic. Then he was walking around his desk, heading towards his office door. Right now, he couldn’t be here. Though the space was adequately large, he still felt like the walls were closing in around him, like he was boxed in. He needed more room to breathe.

Unfortunately, stepping out on to the engineering floor managed only to further incite his rage. There was a cluster of figures gathered around a station used for researching the outcomes of hypothetical scenarios, but none of them were currently using it. At the center, Sullivan Montacue leaned back against a machine, his mouth going a mile a minute. Jack couldn’t hear what he was saying, but he also didn’t need to. Just the sight of the man brought him back to that morning and the conversation he’d had with Angel. If Montacue’s son was anything like his father, then Jack had no doubt that Angel had been telling the truth, perhaps even purposely omitting more of the story. She had as much pride as he did sometimes, hated to confess when something was problematic for her and that she needed an adult’s help. She was the most independent seven year old he’d ever met.

As for Montacue—at that moment, Sullivan was lucky that Jack was keeping a metaphorical chokehold on his own murderous instincts, however precarious his grip might be. Thoughts of breaking his own vows were entertained, though. It would be glorious, yanking his kill count from the depths of retirement so he could reign utter grief and misery down upon the Montacues. He’d take his time, drawing out the hunt, dismantling Sullivan organ by precious organ, carving away little pieces of him, until the blood loss or trauma killed him. That, as Jack was aware of from experimenting over the years, could take _hours_ , if he were careful in his methods. 

But, eh, it was a bit too high on the risk factor for his personal liking. Much like him, Montacue was a senior engineer, forever resentful and bitter that Jack was just simply better at the job and had been offered the department head position first. They worked closely together, with those in the company well aware that they had a rivalry that was borderline unhealthy. 

As for the other engineers on the team, they knew that the situation ran a little deeper than that. The two had actively sabotaged each other in the past. Situations that seemed a little too convenient had been investigated by HR, though nothing had ever been proven. On top of it all, both their children attended the private Hyperion Academy for Young Prodigies, and one night during parent teacher conferences, the two had gotten into a physical altercation outside the building. For the life of him, Jack couldn’t remember what the argument had been about, though he figured it had to do with the academic performances of their children, most likely. In any case, they’d managed to narrowly dodge being arrested that night, and Sullivan had shown up for work with a black eye the next day. He’d threatened to sue. Jack had goaded him into trying it, then written him up for his unsightly appearance, stating that it was bringing morale down.

If Sullivan went missing, Jack would likely be prime suspect number one. Well, maybe after his widow. It was always the spouse, detectives liked to believe from his experience. The thought set off a sour, metallic taste on his tongue. But if they investigated further, came knocking on Jack’s door one day to rifle through his proverbial closet, he was fearful of all the skeletons that would come pouring out. He had no regrets, no remorse for the things he’d done; no deep down wishes to be anything else other than the man that he was. What made him break out in a cold sweat, made him truly fear his prosecution, was how Angel would perceive him afterward. Her mother was dead and buried, and her father was the monster under the bed. She didn’t deserve that kind of trauma. 

Over near the work station, Montacue had stopped talking. His gaze met Jack’s across the room. For a moment, Jack entertained the idea of going over there and parting the crowd, wiping that lazy smirk off the man’s face with a few choice cutting words. Ultimately, he deemed that too much of a waste of time. His needs right now were centered on finding the zen that would power him through his day. Otherwise it wouldn’t be long before he reached critical mass and had a meltdown. 

However, that didn’t stop him from barking at the crowd as he passed. “Alright, consider your little circle jerk officially over. Now how about all you put your dicks back in your pants and get back to work, eh?” 

Shuffling their feet and avoiding direct eye contact, the workers dispersed. Montacue was the last one to leave. Straightening up, he coughed into his fist. The noise he made sounded mysteriously like an insult.

“Whatever you say, Lawrence,” he said, voice curling into a sing-song of mockery. “You _are_ the boss, after all.” 

Jack didn’t rise to the bait. Oh, he wanted to. The man was just begging to suffer a freak workplace injury, courtesy of Jack’s _accidental_ machinations. Too much paperwork, though. And he didn’t need to serve up an excuse for Tassiter to tear him a new asshole again. That decided him, and he just glared at the other man before turning away. He didn’t look back as he left the general vicinity. 

The atrium on the top floor was typically a quiet place. Jack didn’t exactly have clearance for it, but he’d bribed a botanist by the name of Professor Nakayama that seemed to have a thing for him into giving him the access codes. Today was no exception to its typical serenity. There were some workers tending to the plants, some in lab gear as they collected samples from the leaves and soil. Nobody bothered him or chased him out, though. Not even when he took the pack of cigarettes from his pocket and extracted one from the container. The coffin nail was thin and black, and had a faintly pleasant scent that tugged gently on his impulses. Twirling it between his callused fingers, he regarded it. There was a time after Angel had come to live with him that he’d given up smoking. That hadn’t been very easy or comfortable. The withdrawal had him on edge for months, so much worse than he could’ve imagined a nicotine addiction could be. But he wanted to be a good dad for her, and good dads didn’t remind their child that their mommy had had a careless, nasty habit that eventually sent her to an untimely death. That, and he wanted to set good examples for her. Even now, having returned to the arms of the old addiction, he never lit up if there was a risk she’d see him. He hid the cigarettes _and_ the booze with careful consideration. 

The lighter sparked to life in his hand. That’s all it had taken to disrupt the fabric of his double life. A goddam spark, a flame, and a lit fucking cigarette in a dark fucking room. To think of all the plans he’d been making, all burned down in the wake of that house fire. 

The cigarette was lit. Jack turned his attention towards the three-sixty windows, looking out on Pandora City, the smaller buildings seeming slight and meager in the shadow of the Hyperion skyscraper. He took a long, deep drag. The city was a magnificent bastard by design. But he was a much bigger, much meaner bastard, and he’d wrangle Pandora one dead body at a time if he had to. 

Blinking as if waking up from a dream, he scrubbed at his face with his free hand, pushing strands of his hair that had fallen loose off his forehead. He was slipping. Even now he could feel the jaws of his deadly impulses snapping at the heels of conscious thought, trying to break on through. Tassiter must have gotten to him more than he cared to admit.

That, or it was the hours of replaying that video. The lurid allure of an old kill, and an old life.

He swallowed down the saliva that had pooled in his mouth, took in another great lungful of smoke. These thoughts were threatening to undo everything he had worked so hard at the last two years. Trying to steer his mind to other avenues, he fumbled his phone from his jacket pocket. The message app, for once, was empty of recent activity. He thumbed open one of the contacts, typing out a message.

**Ain’t going to make it to Angel’s appointment. Got to stay late at the office. Bed no later than 8 if I’m not back. Keep her away from the stream watching**

Jack hit send. A few minutes went by. He smoked in silence, glad for something to distract him, momentary as it was. The phone eventually buzzed.

**TimTams: Somehow that’s no surprise. You think you can make it home a decent hour this time?**

**No promises. Tassiter’s riding my ass. Feel free to not wait up**

**TimTams: I’ll be up. Scripts don’t write themselves. Besides, something came up I want to talk to you about.**

**What is it? I got a moment**

**TimTams: It’s better I talk to you in person about it.**

Jack didn’t bother writing back. The comment was unnaturally cryptic for Tim. And was it his imagination, or did his brother seem more curt than usual? He remembered that moment at the breakfast table that morning, the comment Tim had made that he’d passed off as him just being grouchy. Uneasiness settled in his stomach, threatening to spread. He dismissed it as best as he could. Probably just paranoia.

At least he hoped it was just that. 

Clicking the phone off, he slipped it back in his pocket. A lick of his fingers, and he pinched the cigarette between them, snuffing it out. When nobody seemed to be looking, he tossed the butt into the nearest patch of soil.

It was time to get back to work. That, and he didn’t want to linger here any longer than necessary. Not only would he be missed soon, but there was a chance Nakayama might show up. He shuddered. The Professor was great for wrangling favors from and using to get through certain loopholes, but he was an utter creep. The blatant lustful advances he made towards Jack dripped with obsession, and were too hands-on for his liking. And the hands in question were warm and clammy. 

Sparing Pandora City one last glance through the windows, Jack beat a hasty retreat.


	3. Going Hunting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's late when both Rhys and Jack finally get off work. The two cross paths when Jack makes impromptu plans, but the meeting isn't entirely conventional.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: this chapter contains intense violence, blood and gore.

It was late when the train pulled into the station and to a stop, sparks flying from the electric rail connector overhead, brilliant against the backdrop of night. The train doors shuddered before opening entirely. Rhys stepped out on to the platform, heading for the nearest stairwell and descending to street level. Once his feet met the sidewalk, he crossed to the other side of the road, avoiding a cloud of noxious gas belching from beneath a closed manhole. Despite the hour, the asphalt and pavement were still steamy from a day spent absorbing the sun’s rays, the air still cloying. Summers in Pandora City were sweaty, swampy affairs, boiling with an infernal heat late into the night. It brought residents and tourists out in droves. This time of night set loose the tailgaters, the individuals who bided their time in coffee houses or bars until the clubs officially opened. Not exactly his scene, but Rhys had dabbled back during his college days. 

The city’s club circuit was a carefully curated, individualistic affair. Self proclaimed nerds like him and Vaughn hung around clubs like _EL33tist_ and _Electric Dreams_ and got wasted on neon colored drinks with names like DDoS Bomb. If you desired a heady cocktail of pleasure and pain, you could join the leather-clad masses of _Pandora’s Box_ and down glasses of drake fruit wine prior to getting bound and gagged or whatever your kink might be. And if you were part of the wealthy and corporate elite, you went to _The Red and the Black_ to drink your weight in dirty martinis and gamble away the equivalent of pocket change in high stakes poker games. 

Some day, Rhys hoped to be on the guest list of the latter club. With how well the meeting with Korben Nguyen, the head marketing officer, had gone down, he couldn’t help but feel that such a day would be arriving soon. The meeting between them had lasted nearly three hours. Initially, they discussed the data Rhys had compiled from his hijacking of the satellite transmission. Something that wasn’t exactly in his job description, or particularly very kosher. But what doing so had uncovered was too juicy to not forward to the right people, especially since he was growing restless with his position at Lumietech. They were just a small Echo security company, sure, nothing on the levels of Hyperion’s wealth, influence, or industry. Moving up to a higher position still came with a plethora of benefits, though. And it ensured him a better pay rate, a brighter future. It put him in a position to be snatched up by their superior competitors. 

It could potentially land him at a high ranking position at Hyperion. Then he’d be set for life.

Once he and Mr. Nguyen had discussed matters privately for at least an hour, several members of the board had come into the meeting room. Granted, it wasn’t the entirety of the board. A couple were still missing. To have any of them there at all was a big deal to Rhys, though. He had to prove to them the information he’d unearthed was worth pursuing, that he wasn’t just taking shots in the dark here and wasting their precious time. 

In the end, it seemed he’d more than succeeded. Mister Nguyen and the board members were all smiles and handshakes. There was a non-disclosure agreement to sign, and orders to await further instructions. Once the board members had made their exit, Nguyen even offered him a glass of his private reserve cognac. Though Rhys had declined, he knew the gesture was not being made lightly. You didn’t get offered a department head’s reserve from a bottle that was probably more than your salary could afford without having done something exceptional.

So, to say Rhys felt light on his feet was an understatement. It was as if his whole body was filled with air, rushing to his head and the rest of his extremities. He was practically buoyant. The fact that he couldn’t relay his tale of success to Vaughn quite yet brought him back to the planet’s surface some. All in good time, he supposed.

The light feeling made him realize there was a gnawing in his belly that was growing difficult to ignore. His last meal had been at lunch time, and now he realized that the hollowness of hunger had probably been nagging him for quite some time. He’d just been too mentally preoccupied to pay it any attention. Tired from the extra long work day, he didn’t want to bother making a meal when he got home. Even a sandwich was too much effort. A few shops ahead, a squat building sat a bit back from the road. Lights from its picture windows bathed its parking lot and the sidewalk in a bright glow that was hard to ignore. A neon sign on the roof declared _Shade’s Shack_ in pink and green lettering. Shade’s was a well known eatery chain in this part of the city serving up late night greasy spoon fare. Rhys avoided the place as much as he could. Not only was the proprietor creepy and insane, but he was pretty sure the food wasn’t prepared under the most sanitary conditions. 

Still, there wasn’t much choice between here and his apartment complex. And any food trucks or street vendors were long gone by this hour.

Sighing, Rhys squared his shoulders and turned towards the restaurant. A moment later, he was pulling open the entrance door and making his way towards the front counter.

XXX

By the time Jack had made it to the reserved space in the Hyperion parking garage where his sports car was parked, he was no longer quite sure what time it was. He’d spent the remainder of the work day in a daze, implementing the final touches on the schematic nearly by muscle memory alone. That was probably inaccurate. He was sure that it had taken more than a fair share of brain power. Probably even some consulting of resources. But goddam if he could remember when that had occurred. It was just that kind of clusterfucked day.

Well, if anything, at least he’d finished the project. It had taken longer than he would have liked, and he still had to show up for the meeting with the board about the prototype (which he assumed had been rescheduled), but at least he’d had confirmation that all the necessary paperwork was now in Tassiter’s possession. The man couldn’t write him up for anymore acts of insubordination. At least without making up a whopping pile of bullshit. The two were often at each other’s throats, but Jack knew he wasn’t as expendable as Tassiter liked him to believe. Average workers like Sullivan Montacue came and went at Hyperion, but truly ingenious individuals like Jack Lawrence were the company’s backbone. Which meant the higher ups could loathe him to Elpis and back. It didn’t change the fact that they relied on him to keep their profit margin up. 

When he slid into the car and started the engine, the clock surprised him. It wasn’t early, but it also wasn’t as late as he had expected. Tim probably wouldn’t expect him home for another few hours. Though he was tired from the overtime, and disgruntled over the lack of compensation for it, it was too tempting of an opportunity to pass up. The night was his to do with as he pleased (for once), or at least a small sliver of it. Several possibilities crossed his mind. He could ring up Nisha Kadam, see if she could slot him into her busy evening schedule for an impromptu visit, let him blow off some steam in hard, rigorous ways. Barring that, he could always throw down at the card tables in the casinos for a little bit, or head over to Moxxxi’s and get so blitzed on weird and potent cocktails that he ended up depositing hundreds of credits directly into the accounts of the strippers.

Or…he could go on a hunt.

Jack didn’t realize he was white-knuckling the wheel until he made the conscious effort to let go of it. For a moment, his breath caught in his chest, suspended in his lungs as if he were being slowly smothered. He let it out all at once in a rush. 

He didn’t know where the thought had come from, only that it had come barreling out of the darkest crevasses of thought at full throttle. His muscles were rigid, his movements stiff. A tilt of his head to the side released a stiff crack. The gear shift _thunked_ as he pulled the car into reverse. 

A hunt. A vicious, predatory hunt, where his instincts could soar.

The security officer waved at him as he pulled out of the garage complex. Jack didn’t wave back, too lost in the realm of his own thoughts. He pounded a fist against the steering wheel, the horn giving a sharp bleet. Of all the nights for old habits to come bubbling to the surface and tug on his consciousness, demanding he pay them his attentions, why this one? Deep down, he knew. Godammit, he knew. Watching that news footage of the kill site ad nauseaum had only exacerbated a frustration that had probably been building slowly, and was only now coming to a head. Behind his eyes, in his fingertips, at the base of his head where brain met spine. The old desires roosted there, slithery serpents that would soon be everywhere, unable to be corralled again. 

Two years of denial and oppression. Two years too fucking long. Whatever dark, hollow beast dwelled inside him howled for sustenance. He was more than capable of feeding it.

The thought chilled him to the bone. 

But he knew the leather-bound photo album under his floorboards was far from complete, and he knew he’d never planned to abandon it forever. Even now, its blank pages seemed to mock him. It was simply impossible to break its hold on him. Especially not for the fabled _forever_.

But Angel was still so young. He was supposed to _protect_ her from the human offal, the people like him who abducted, maimed, killed in the most horrific of ways. And Tim, well, Tim wasn’t as stupid as Jack liked to believe. It wasn’t a question of if he’d find out, it was when. Maybe he wouldn’t turn Jack into the authorities. This, Jack knew from experience. But he sure as shit would take Angel away from him and vanish without a trace, making sure they could never be tracked. He was so sure of that fact that it was almost a premonition.

“Still, couldn’t hurt,” Jack said after a few minutes had passed.

It occurred to him that he’d spoken aloud in the quiet that followed, and he scrubbed roughly at his face with one palm. In the silence, the hiss of the car tires on the road and the engine noises sounded unsettling.

“Goddam, I’m talking to my fucking self now.”

_Couldn’t hurt. C’mon, you don’t have to choose anybody. You can just watch ‘em for awhile. You deserve it for having such a shitty day. It’ll help ya relax like nothing else and you know it. Besides, been awhile since you’ve perused the meat market._

If talking out loud to himself was making him feel unhinged, hearing his own voice in his head goad him into a hunt was downright disconcerting. There was nothing he could do about it short of screaming or trying to beat it into submission, and neither solution seemed like it would’ve been effective. Instead he concentrated on the dark road, glanced at himself in the rearview mirror. Where he expected the image of a haunted man, he was relieved to find he looked like his normal handsome self, albeit a bit more disheveled than he’d been that morning. That was somewhat of a relief, and he relaxed a bit.

A sign sprung up on the side of the road, glowing in digital light. It proclaimed that the entrance for the tunnel that lead to Opportunity would be coming up at the next exit. Jack could turn off there, if he wanted, end the madness of this night prematurely and crawl into his bed. Unsatisfied, sure, but safe from the thoughts mucking with the corrupted pulleys and levers in his mind. There’d be no surveying of the masses, or selecting of the perfect cattle for the slaughter. And maybe that would be enough to quell the urge and bury it deep for a good long time.

The exit was half a mile away, then under that. A sign advertising **Opportunity - A Hyperion Utopia** rose up from the gloom. The off ramp on the right was approaching fast. Jack slowed the car down.

Then he was stomping his foot on the gas, shifting into higher gear. The car roared and lurched, the speedometer rapidly ticking upward. He reached over and snapped on the radio. An electroswing song with a thumping beat swelled through the interior cab. He tapped the wheel along with it, noticing traffic was thickening the closer he got to the heart of downtown. It was either slow the car or test his driving skills with some dangerous maneuvers.

Jack chose the latter, threading the car through tight spaces, using the clutch and the gearshift to keep the movements controlled. Someone blew their horn at him, and another person joined the fray. He flipped them the bird, then ran through a red light, enjoying himself too much to come to a stop.

Eventually, the amusement of speeding through the city wore off. The car dropped to a cruising speed. Jack took the opportunity to gaze out at the city and finally drink some of it in. It had been awhile since he’d been downtown. Now that he was a department head at Hyperion and had moved up in the world, there was little reason to visit this part of the city anymore save for the apartment complexes that had belonged to his grandmother and were now in his and Tim’s names. Their involvement only went as far as checking that rental payments were on time, though, and hiring someone else to take care of the rest.

Coming up on Jack’s right was a _Shade’s Shack_ , the gaudy neon sign catching his eye. Before he’d moved into Opportunity, Shade’s restaurants were a frequent haunt. They had a couple of convenient locations peppered throughout the city, and he’d spent many a late night grabbing beer and greasy hash at one of their establishments, typically with Nisha before they ended up tumbling into bed together. Then he’d ended up meeting someone else. Chloe Eliades from R&D, and things had naturally progressed to something serious. After that came his promotion, which he felt like he’d been waiting an eternity for, and finally enough solid ground under his feet for him to propose marriage. Oh, he’d kept up the killing through it all, was clever enough for his wife to never catch on that he was up to anything shady. At least, he was pretty sure she had never suspected. But things changed when Angel was born. No more long nights, no more murder. He had to be the father he’d never had for Angel, and good fathers didn’t spend their nights plotting other people’s gruesome deaths.

Jack had successfully beat his impulses into submission. At that time, he’d thought it would be forever, that he could maybe finally find the semblance of a normal life. Then the divorce had been filed only a year later, and Angel had gone to live with her mother, and Jack had found himself alone once more.

Alone, and eventually seeking solace from his tumultuous emotions the only way he knew how. If there was one absolute in his life, it was the fact that old habits truly did die hard.

Without really thinking about it, Jack was pulling into the parking lot of the _Shade’s Shack_. He wasn’t a nostalgic man, not even a little. But the restaurant was like a neon lure in the night, reeling him in like a prize catch. Outside of the car, he leaned against the hood and lit up a cigarette, catching the scent of grease and garbage wafting on the air. There was something else underneath it, something faintly ozone, like it had recently been raining. Probably just the pollution and residue from the city’s populace he was no longer used to. As he stomped the cigarette out under a sneaker after a few pulls and made his way towards the entrance, he wondered what he was doing here anyway. He should probably just go home, where he belonged.

But he didn’t turn back. 

At the counter, Jack squinted at the menu, then decided not to waste his time. He ordered two Rakk Ales, to at least have a reason to loiter, and brought them over to a table. Again, he couldn’t really fathom why he’d stopped here of all places. It was unlikely this was a good establishment for…hunting. The profile of his typical prey was far removed from the downtown denizens of Pandora City, who were mostly young college folk living in impoverished conditions or rebellious punks who didn’t believe in the status quo. If he was interested in a proper hunt, the kind that would whet his particular appetite, he was better off prowling around _The Red and the Black_. Not that someone of even his status could exactly waltz through the doors of that place quite yet. At least, not easily.

And anyway, what the fuck was he thinking? This situation was a slippery slope, one he couldn’t afford to let himself tumble down. Even the promise of a hunt, just a little looksee to satisfy the dormant predator inside him, could entice the beast if he didn’t tread carefully. He might’ve felt in total control, might’ve not perpetrated any acts of cold blooded murder over…seven hundred and thirty days? More? He was no longer certain. It didn’t mean he couldn’t succumb to a moment of weakness, though. A shifting thought, the allowance of his imagination to run a little too rampant in the buried pockets of bloody fantasies, was all it would take to break his vows. Someone like him liked to think they were strong and sound of mind and could keep up a facade. People of his ilk, they thought they had themselves completely tethered to a leash of their own design.

The truth of the matter was there was never a leash, and the commitment to life as an upright citizen was just a thin patina. No amount of vows or boundaries could keep steadfast in his kind. Sooner or later something broke, and they all ended up screwing up.

Jack took a sip of his open beer and set the bottle down slowly. His tongue skated out to lick excess alcohol off his lips. The longer he sat at the restaurant table, the closer he got to landing himself in the shit. He scrubbed at his face with one hand, bit at a nail; a habit he’d picked up from his brother. The clock on the wall seemed stuck on the hour, the second hand moving so slowly it might as well have been working in reverse. Getting up and leaving probably was the smart thing to do. Jack wasn’t feeling particularly smart tonight, though. There was a charge in the air he couldn’t quite put words to; a sort of delicious anticipation, and it kept him glued to his seat. His gaze finally tore away from it and trailed to the front entrance. There were a few other people in the restaurant already, but none caught his attention so steadily as the young man coming through the door.

Now, here was someone who summed up the definition of the perfect prey nicely. Tall, dressed in business casual. Probably corporate but not like Hyperion or Maliwan corporate. Or even Tediore. His haircut looked slightly more expensive than the average desk jockey’s, and it was styled carefully with gel. Not in a douchebag way, either. Which meant the guy had some class. Enough to save him from the fate Jack intended for him? That remained to be seen. 

For the few minutes it took for the young man to order his food and receive it, Jack watched him as if he were trying to fathom the meaning of an abstract piece of artwork. The man seemed oblivious, as he didn’t look in Jack’s direction even once. Which was good, he supposed. Luck was at least favoring him tonight. As the young man received a bag full of tacos wrapped in foil—A Shade’s staple—Jack drank down the rest of his beer in a long, drawn out gulp. The door chimed as the other man left. Grabbing up his second, unopened beer bottle, Jack waited until after he’d left before getting up and pursuing him. 

Again, he wasn’t quite sure what he was meant to be doing, and didn’t exactly have a plan. Follow him to where he lived? It could be a trek, or he might not be going home. Try to confront him somehow and wrangle a name out of him, which he could later exploit? That could work to initiate something, but Jack was never comfortable when the prey got to know him, even an amount as meager as that. They could tell someone about the handsome stranger they had met, and he operated best from the shadows, snatching people away before they could even get a real good look at him. Not that some of his prey _hadn’t_ known him in the past. Sometimes it just couldn’t be avoided. Which blew. It just worked better if they didn’t, though, if he could play at being the malicious phantom that swooped down on the unsuspecting masses.

So he followed the young man, always keeping a safe distance, keeping to what shadows he could, hands in pockets, gaze mostly on the sidewalk. All the while his heart beat out a rhythm that grew faster and faster, the anticipation making his skin crawl. The risk proved to be light, however. The other man didn’t even look over his shoulder once.

Soon they were approaching an apartment building that looked old and run down, but not entirely in disrepair. As Jack looked it over, he felt his mouth go dry. Really, he couldn’t have asked for a better situation. Because the apartments that loomed before them? They were one of the complexes that Jack and Tim owned. It was a situation that was ripe for exploitation. The apartment databases he had access to listed the credentials of every single tenant. If this man was one of them, he’d be in there. Jack didn’t even need a name, just an apartment number. Though how he was going to manage to acquire that hadn’t been decided on yet. 

With a jolt of annoyance, he realized he had become too entrenched in his own thoughts and had stopped nearly in the middle of the street, that the man had gotten quite a bit ahead of him. Somehow he managed to keep his footsteps silent as he took a deep breath and hurried to catch up with him.

XXX

One thing Rhys was glad for was that he was nearly at his apartment. Soon he could put his feet up, eat his tacos, and play some Raiders until he felt tired enough to go to bed. Even though the day had been long, he was riding high on endorphins from the successful meeting. It would be awhile before he’d actually be able to fall asleep.

His apartment complex entrance was a couple hundred feet away. He removed his pass card from his wallet so that he could enter the building. This wasn’t the worst section of the city to be living in, but it still had its share of late night crime on occasion. Such, security measures had been put in place to protect the apartment residents. The pass cards weren’t the best solution to the problem, but the owner was too cheap to hire even a lobbyman, so it was the most tenants could hope for. That, and the camera system. Though Rhys was pretty sure those were more for show and weren’t actually recording anything.

When Rhys was reaching out to slide his card through the reader, he heard the scuffle of footsteps. It directed his attention to the shadowed recess of the alleyway beside the complex. There, a blotch of darkness swathed in even inkier darkness moved. Someone was making their way around the side of the building. Rhys made a split second decision. Friend or foe, he didn’t care as he fumbled with the card reader, trying to get inside as quickly as possible. 

The figure stepped into a sliver of streetlight. Rhys saw the tight mask that seemed to cling to their face, a telltale vault symbol emblazoned across the material. The eyes of the mask were illuminated, glowing a dull bluish gray.

_Foe. Definitely foe_.

All of Rhys’ instincts were screaming in a chorus that set his ears ringing. From his hands fell the card, hitting the pavement with a plasticine clatter. There weren’t supposed to be bandits in this part of the city. At least, Rhys had never seen them around here. He knew they got past city borders at times. Quite often, even. Usually specialty units were deployed to deal with them swiftly, though, and if they didn’t, there was plenty a denizen of Pandora City that carried a firearm and would defend themselves without much provocation. Hell, the populace were better defenders of their own health and safety than any Pandora law enforcement was. Rhys had heard once that more than eighty-five percent of Pandorans were armed at all times, and that they were quite efficient at serving up civilian justice.

Rhys wasn’t one of those people. Frankly, firearms scared the piss out of him. He was more a non-lethal defense kind of guy. Martial arts, if he ever got around to learning any. He had a Hyperion branded stun baton somewhere in his bedroom closet (which he’d never used). Right now, though, he would’ve given up one of his testicles for something to defend himself with. There was an attempt made for the card he’d dropped, in those seconds of sweat-soaked desperation. But the bandit rushed him, getting up in his face before he could reach for it.

“I don’t think so, pretty boy,” came a raspy voice. It was calm, collected. Not at all what Rhys was expecting to come from behind the mask. A booted foot came down on the card, a scraping sound rising up in the night as it was dragged away. A metallic noise followed. Rhys realized the bandit was holding a Tediore SMG in a death grip and it was pointed at him.

Another figure slithered out of the darkness. In his chest, Rhys’ breath stilled. The other bandit was so tall and beefy that he was hunched over, as if he couldn’t bear his own weight. Instead of a cloth mask, he wore one that looked made of a more durable material, a breathing filter where the mouth should have been. He was shirtless, adorned with a plethora of gibberish tattoos, and from his limp grip hung a buzz axe. A low, rumbling growl emitted from beneath his mask. Rhys swallowed thickly.

The first bandit stood there regarding Rhys for a few moments. In that time frame, Rhys considered making a run for it, his heart already thumping out a rabbit-swift rhythm. He shifted ever slightly, beginning to twist himself around.

And then something cracked against the side of his head, sending his world tilting on its axis. His vision doubled and he stumbled, slamming against the glass doors of the apartment complex and trying desperately to keep himself from crumpling to the ground. There was glaring pain at his temple, and when he reached up he felt something warm and sticky grace his fingers.

The bandit was picking up the pass card from the sidewalk. He fitted into the reader slot next to the door, tilting his head and sighing when the little light next to it buzzed and turned red.

“Hey, hey!” he barked, grabbing Rhys by the front of his shirt and banging him up against the glass. “I need you to focus. How does this shit work, huh?”

Though his lips moved, no sound came out of Rhys’ mouth. Instead, a thin line of drool trickled over his lips and down his chin. 

“You better fucking answer me!” The bandit’s voice had rose another octave. He lifted the gun in his hand, prepared to strike Rhys once again in a futile effort to seek his cooperation.

He never got the chance.

Glass shattered in the night, shards raining down at the bandit’s feet accompanied by a smattering of alcohol, the scent strong. He screamed, clutching the back of his head, where blood was beginning to seep through the material of his mask in a dark blotch of a stain. A second went by and suddenly his feet were swept out from underneath him. He went tumbling down to the sidewalk, smacking his face against the concrete. Another ragged yelp was torn from his lungs. He crawled a few inches and flipped himself over, desperate to see who his attacker was. Not a glimpse was spared to him as a fist slammed into his cheek, bone crunching, teeth rattling. He clawed at his mask, pulling it up so he could spit blood and the fragments of a broken tooth out of his mouth.

“Filthy goddam bandits,” someone said, low and furious. “Coming into this city like you own the fucking place, all the time. Someone should just kick all your asses into orbit already.”

A sneakered foot caught the bandit in the ribs. He gasped for breath, whimpering, and fell flat to the sidewalk. The foot that had kicked him came stomping down on the middle of his back, forcing all the air out of his lungs. It vanished in another heartbeat, a grunt accompanying the loss, though it wasn’t the bandit who’d made the noise. He swung his head to either side, trying to get a glimpse of what was going on.

XXX

In the moments before the humongous Psycho had plucked him up and entered the fight, Jack had been pretty sure he’d been winning. Despite the bandit having been armed, he’d taken him off guard enough to gain the upper hand. Even if he did have a gun, when it came to brute strength, Jack was a powerhouse, if he did say so himself. There was a reason he spent almost two hours in his home gym every morning training and honing his muscles, keeping himself fit. His physical prowess when it came down to fisticuffs was more than just a little adequate.

He’d entered the fray riding a tangent of pure rage, losing himself to the emotion in that moment. Bandits were disdainful human wastes of space, but even worse were those that dared to try and snatch his prey out of his clutches. Like a lean and hungry skag, he’d defend what was his rightful kill and his alone with tooth and claw. Not that he’d been about to kill the young man. Not tonight at least. It was the principle of the matter. Other predators encroaching on his territory was a good, quick way to entice his wrath.

Right now, he focused on fighting against the arms that bound him. The Psycho had grabbed him up in a deadly bear hug, thick arms banded with muscle upon muscle wrapped around his torso, squeezing precious air from his lungs. Jack drew his elbow back and slammed it into his captor’s ribs. He heard the telltale grunt of pain escape the Psycho, but the grip didn’t loosen. Growling, Jack jabbed him again, and again, each time twined with more anger and force. When that didn’t work, Jack pushed back against the mountain of a man, trying to throw him off balance.

The bandit with the gun had rolled into a position to take aim at Jack. Nevermind that shooting Jack would likely mean his Psycho buddy would get caught in the crossfire. Before he could get a shot off, Jack swung a leg out and caught him in the face with the sole of his shoe. He went down again with even more of a spray of blood and broken teeth.

“Son,” Jack said, wheezing, “of a goddam taint.”

The Psycho squeezed him harder, but Jack was at boiling point. Adrenaline surged through his veins, turning his muscles to bands of steel. He gritted his teeth and made another attempt to push the bastard back. The Psycho’s feet shuffled against the sidewalk, and he nearly stumbled. Jack smelled blood in those moments and seized the opportunity. He threw all of himself against the Psycho, growling as he managed to slam the other man up against the side of the apartment building, the impact so powerful it jarred them both. There was a satisfying crunch and the Psycho’s grip loosened on him. Jack moved swiftly, breaking the hold, knowing the Psycho was far from out of the fight. He considered picking up the bandit’s gun and ending this in a hail of bullets. But no. He didn’t want to touch something the bandit had had his filthy hands all over, and besides, it was a fucking Tediore. Instead he balled his hands into fists and sent them flailing at the Psycho’s face, hearing the creak of his mask shattering with each impact. It only spurned Jack on. 

Jack didn’t let up until the mask was destroyed, until he could see the flesh mashed into a pulp beneath it. The Psycho raised his buzz axe and made a few half-hearted attempts to fight back, but Jack was like a rabid beast, knocking the weapon from his grip with ease. Eventually there was nothing left of the Psycho’s face but raw meat and blood. Jack took a moment to heave great lungfuls of breath. Then he was wrapping his hands around his opponent’s throat, the tanned skin turning white with the pressure he applied. 

The Psycho whimpered and wheezed, attempting to squawk out words. Jack only tightened his grip, and none came. The other man was scrabbling at Jack’s hands, not even his overly muscled physique able to save him. Teeth stained pink clenched, more blood spilling out between them. The Psycho must have bitten his tongue, Jack realized. Good. Let the fucker choke on his own blood. 

Only that didn’t happen. The Psycho went limp in Jack’s grip, his breath stilling, before he could. It took awhile longer for Jack to pull off of him. When he did, he decided to deal one more blow to body, his foot colliding with the man’s balls. There wasn’t much gratification in it, with the man being dead, but he had one more body to abuse to satisfy his bloodlust. Jack turned to the bandit, who was still laying on his back, groaning softly. There was a snap as he kicked the man in the ribs again. Then another, more louder and chilling as Jack stomped his foot down on the bandit’s sternum. Once, twice. The man screamed, and the third blow must’ve sent bone shards tearing through his heart, because he coughed up a gout of blood and went still. 

The assault didn’t end there. Jack continued to kick the body, the dull thuds echoing in a night that had gone deathly silent. He even grabbed the body into a sitting position at one point, pummeling it as if it were a practice dummy, mottling the skin red and black and blue. When he finally came to his senses, finally stopped his mindless attempt at some kind of visceral catharsis, Jack straightened to his full height, stared down at the body, and unceremoniously spit on it. He wiped his mouth with the back of his bloodied hand, the saliva trail he left behind shiny in the moonlight.

Then he turned to the person he’d been trying to defend. The young man had slid down the glass door into a puddle of long, gangly limbs on the sidewalk. He seemed to be staring into the distance, apparently at nothing. Shock or concussion maybe. Probably a little of both. Jack walked over and crouched so that they were eye level.

“Hey, kiddo, you okay?” he said, voice hoarse as if he had spent the entire fight screaming. “You need a doctor or something? Or, er—hey, how ‘bout we start with names. Name’s Jack. You?”

There was a sound like a sigh that escaped the young man, his lips parting just slightly, pursing to form consonants and vowels. Slowly, he turned a gaze that was all pupil on Jack.

“I—Rhys,” he finally said after some hesitation. “I’m Rhys. We should…I think we should probably call the cops. Those people are dead, right?”

Sparing a glance at the two bodies over his shoulder, Jack nodded. “Sure. But I don’t think the cops are really that good of an idea, sweetheart. Besides, what the hell they gonna do, anyway? Those two assholes came in from the Borderlands. They ain’t citizens. There’s nothing to investigate. Now, I can getcha to the hospital, if that’s what you need. Car’s not—”

“Want the cops.” And, finally, Rhys’ gaze seemed to spark with something other than vacancy. He fumbled at Jack’s leather coat, squinting at the logo of the shirt underneath it. “You’re from Hyperion?”

“Yup.” Jack saw no use in lying, considering what he was wearing. He wet his lips and didn’t push Rhys’ prying hands away, amused by the sheer lack of disregard for personal space. “Greatest company on the planet.”

“Cool. Always wanted to work for them.” A chuckle escaped Rhys. “But I’m stuck at Lumietech doing data mining, of all things.” He snorted. “Least until I get my promotion. Soon.”

This was too easy for Jack. No need to even pump Rhys for information. He let one corner of his mouth flicker in a grin, his gaze darting to the apartment’s front entrance and the lobby beyond the glass. 

“What do you say we get you off the dirty ground and into the building, eh? Your noggin’s probably definitely not appreciating the situation right now.”

“No,” Rhys said, voice becoming adamant. “We have to…can you _please_ call the cops?”

Jack sighed. He really, really fucking hated dealing with the PCPD. Not just because of what he was, and what his pastimes used to consist of. They were a bunch of bumbling buffoons, the lot of them, their heads stuffed far up their own asses, caring only to do their job when money or influence was involved. They were corrupt, and they were incompetent, and Jack didn’t know why he was pulling out his phone to bother dialing the number.

Maybe because Rhys was prey, and he wasn’t ready to surrender his prey to outside complications. 

Attractive prey at that.

_Wait, where had that thought come from?_

The phone rang three times before a dry female voice laced with boredom answered. “PCPD, what’s your emergency?”

Without hesitating, Jack relayed Rhys’ condition. Another moment was spent in consideration. His gaze slid over Rhys, then the two lifeless bodies a few feet away. “Got a pair of stiffs here, too. Not breathing, no pulse.”

“Where are you located at this moment, sir?”

Jack gave the woman the address to the apartment complex. “Name’s John Lawrence,” he said when asked.

“And what’s your friend’s name?”

“Uh, Rhys. Dunno his last name.” A brittle chuckle escaped Jack, dissolving a moment later. “You could say we just kinda met out here on the street. Like, just now.”

“I see.” The dispatcher didn’t sound amused. “Are you aware of the identities of anyone else at the scene?”

“Nah. The dead guys are just dirty fucking bandits. Not gonna be giving you shit how your people probably let ‘em in to the city. But, ya know, it’s probably all the PCPD’s fault. Just sayin’.”

“Right.” It was almost a snarl. “I’m dispatching officers to your location now. It should be about ten minutes. In the meanwhile, can you tell me what happened?”

Jack did, leaving out the details where he’d beat his opponents to a bloody pulp. It wasn’t hard to tell that the dispatcher was suspicious of his story, but she didn’t pry. Which he was thankful for, because he was sure the PCPD would reach down his metaphorical throat and wrench the truth right out of him when they did show up. He wasn’t looking forward to it. The PCPD had their ways of widdling civilians down to the truth, and Jack was too smart to fuck with them. It meant he probably should be getting out of here before they showed up, that he should hang up the phone and be back in his car before they even arrived. He appraised Rhys’ state once more. The wound in the young man’s head was still bleeding, the pavement beside him stained crimson. His eyes were closed, his neck arched so that his head rested against the front entrance door. One look at the graceful, pale arch of his neck made Jack swallow hard. Suddenly, he was overtaken with the initial stirrings of something more carnal than the situation called for.

It was the dark ink emblazoned on Rhys’ skin that woke his arousal up entirely. He had no idea why the discovery of the tattoo had him shifting mental gears with such force, only that his dick gave a twitch of pure want at the sight. Jack turned away, knowing when he should definitely remove himself from a scene.

Then, sirens, splitting the night air like the wail of some vengeful ghost. They were close. If he wanted to get out of here, it would have to be _now_.

Jack, yet again, looked at Rhys. The young man had opened his eyes once more, was staring at him. 

“Cops will be coming around any moment, kiddo,” Jack told him, slipping his hands into the pockets of his jacket, already walking away. “They’ll take it from here. See ya when I see ya, I guess.”

“Wait,” Rhys said hoarsely. 

But Jack was already stepping off the curb into the street, his steps hasty as he disappeared back into the night from where he had come.

Rhys was left watching the retreating **H** logo on the back of his jacket. Soon the view was blocked out by a sleek, ugly gray cruiser with headlights on the roof coming around the corner and pulling up to the curb.

**Author's Note:**

> Buckle up, it's going to be a hell of a ride from here. Thanks for reading! You can find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/MorteAmore)


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